


Unexpected Turn

by abarelyfunctioning



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, But age really doesn't matter, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dating, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mycroft's Meddling, Mycroft's Umbrella, Omniscient Mycroft, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reunion, Sherlock is older than John, apparently, eventual angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abarelyfunctioning/pseuds/abarelyfunctioning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, first-year undergrad.<br/>Sherlock, last-year grad.</p><p>Sherlock tutors Molly. Sherlock and John fall in love. Things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sher

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock in this chapter is based on Rory Slippery in Fortysomething. Appearance-wise only, mind you.
> 
> BBC Sherlock doesn't belong to me, I don't get anything out of this.
> 
> Not Beta'd, not Brit-picked. Excuse the inevitable mistakes.  
> University system based loosely on the US system.
> 
> I still haven't figured out how the story's going to turn out. Don't expect much.

"Have you done it?" a deep voice growls impatiently.

"Erm, I haven't quite... It's only been a minute since I've started," Molly's timid voice answers.

"It's _already_ been a minute since you've started solving it. Stop wasting my time and think!" Sherlock's fingers drum the table.

Molly tightly closes her mouth and stares at her textbook under Sherlock's constant scrutiny. They are seated across each other at the far end of the rectangular 6-person dining table with a textbook in between them.

John takes in the scene with a slight frown from the counter behind Molly. Then he turns back to focus his attention on the brewing tea, silently shaking his head. Molly doesn’t deserve to be treated like this, but she insists that her biochem grade has spiked since Sherlock’s started tutoring her. John has no business interrupting the lesson, he supposes. Molly knows what she’s doing.

After a couple minutes, John finally decides that his tea has been brewed enough (too much, actually) and slowly takes the teabag out of the dark liquid. He takes his time in case Sherlock really over-does it when John’s gone.

"Wrong again! For God's sake, why do you even bother?" Sherlock growls as he looks over Molly's answer. "What, you couldn't spend all those times you followed me around, begging me to tutor you, on actually studying?"

Molly's strong enough to take this on without tearing up. She's had enough practice battling Sherlock. After all, she had followed ( _pestered_ , Sherlock would say and John would agree) Sherlock around for a month (excluding the days Sherlock had actually managed to evade the determined undergrad), until the grad student had agreed to tutor her at last. But, she's still not strong enough to look directly at Sherlock's piercing eyes. John frowns.

John wonders if he should stay a while longer as Molly's much-needed moral support. But he has a 10-page research paper due. He hasn't even looked at the prompt since it was given to him a month ago. He really should get started.

 _I really should get started_ , John thinks, and silently walks out the kitchen. He goes up the creaking wooden stairs to his room. It's a good thing he's quite good at the science courses. Unlike many of his peers, John doesn't have much trouble understanding the coursework. If he had, he knows that Molly would have pestered him into joining her tutoring sessions.

"Nope, never," John murmurs and opens his notebook. It's going to be a long night.

\---

"John, you should join us," Molly calls from the threshold of John's small room.

"Join you? For what?" John is confused. He looks up from his fifth essay of the semester. He's still wondering just why he chose to take this unnecessary course. _Easy A_ , they had said. And John had believed.

"Sherlock will be here in 5 minutes," Molly's voice is tense with fear. John is mildly amused.

"Molly, we both know that I don't need a tutor for biochem." John smiles apologetically. "Besides, this is your doing. Everyone warned you not to get involved with this bloke. And I have another essay due tomorrow."

"Please, John? I've come to realize that I should have just kept him as a crush. But there's simply no way to be rid of him now! It's been three weeks. He'll be offended and extra upset with me!" Molly starts to tear up. "Please come down and write your essay in the kitchen? You don't even have to talk with us at all!"

John has never had to deal with women crying. Despite having a sister, he had never had the pleasure of seeing the strong-minded and tough Harry producing a single tear out of her eyes. He also has never been in a serious enough relationship to see it in action from his girlfriends past. John concludes that he hates seeing girls crying.

"All right, all right." With that, he grabs his laptop and textbook, and follows Molly downstairs.

1600\. The clock in the living area chimes, as Sherlock glides into the kitchen and sits down at the far end of the table without bothering to acknowledge Molly or John. If someone who didn't know better had seen them, they would think that Sherlock were the resident of the flat, not the other two.

"Start," Sherlock says.

Molly begins writing at the command. John, sitting silently at the other end of the table, stares at his blank document. Well, it's not _really_ blank. The header and the fancy 'The' are taking up a quarter of the page already. John's quite proud of that.

"Wrong, wrong, wrong!" Sherlock shouts. "Have you even read the book? Do you attend the class? A child with half a brain could figure this out if he's spent half as much time in class as you have."

Molly's face is deep red. If John weren't so familiar with the human biology, he would be worried her head might explode.

John grimaces hard at the open computer. He really should say something. But what?

John sighs loudly and continues typing. Molly has resumed working on the assignment. Sherlock's scrutinizing... John. When he feels the piercing gaze on himself, John looks at Sherlock to hold the eye contact. _This.. is.. weird_ , John thinks after a second of this and licks his lips. A nervous habit. He focuses his gaze back to his screen.

\---

"You really should go home, too," Mike says while he packs his clothes.

"The folks are busy working and Harry's never home, anyway," John replies, watching Mike. "I should catch up on assignments. Physiology's getting a bit more complicated. Need to work on that."

It's the beginning of a three-day weekend. Molly's parents have come to pick her up at noon. And now, their other flatmate, Mike, is getting ready to take the train home. John doesn't bother going home. He would much rather stay in the empty apartment alone for the weekend.

"See you, mate," Mike says as he leaves. "We're only first-years. Don't work yourself to death."

"Ta." John closes the front door and goes up to his empty room.

Two long hours of browsing the Internet pass by. The doorbell rings impatiently. John grumbles and gets off the bed. How can a doorbell sound so impatient? Unless… He glances at the clock in the hallway before jumping down the stairway. 1600. Must be…

“Sherlock?” John opens the door and greets the tall man dressed in a blue-and-black striped jumper and jeans.

“Molly.” Sherlock seems to like saving his breath unless he’s insulting people. “Oh, I see,” he says with a quick glance into the flat before John can answer.

“I guess Molly’s forgotten to tell you she’s gone home for the weekend?” John asks, questioning why the other man’s barging into the kitchen, uninvited.

“Obviously,” the man says briskly.

“So… What are you doing?” John follows Sherlock into the kitchen.

“You just invited me in. So I’ve come in,” Sherlock stares at John, quite confused.

John is the one confused. He stares back. “Er… No, I didn’t?”

“You opened the door, wider than you would have needed to check who’s outside. You’re clearly not dressed to go out. You lingered at the doorway and moved 4 inches to the right when you saw it was me. If it’s not an invitation in then I don’t know what it was,” Sherlock said.

“It wasn’t an invitation, Sherlock. I didn’t tell you to intrude in my living area.”

“But your body language-”

“I don’t care what my body told you, my bloody mouth didn’t say anything.” John may endure how Sherlock treats Molly, but he won’t let the man be rude to him. “Please, kindly step back out the door and don’t come back until Molly calls for you. Sometime next week. Probably.”

“But won’t you invite me in for a cuppa?” Sherlock whips out his puppy eyes.

John is either very turned on or very disgusted. He decides on the latter.

“You’re lonely. This is a big place. Both of your flatmates have gone. You crave company. I can provide you the company. I’m willing to do that for you,” Sherlock rambles on.

John licks his bottom lip. A habit he engages in when he’s lost. “Er, no,” he decides. “Thank you for the offer but I’d really rather be alone. Please leave.”

Sherlock’s pouting now. Is he trying to be cute? _What the actual fuck._ John glares at the tall man. After a few seconds of the staring contest, Sherlock ruffles his ebony curls and strides out the front door, not bothering to close it. John huffs out a laugh and goes over to close the door. He puts the kettle on for a cuppa. Rude as he is, Sherlock is an interesting business, John decides.

\---

Molly’s tutoring sessions occur every Wednesday and Friday at 1600. At 1550, Molly drops by John’s room to beg for his presence, claiming that Sherlock’s gotten so much better since John’s begun joining them. At 1555, John follows Molly into the kitchen with his unfinished assignment of the day. 1600 and Sherlock glides into the kitchen in a tight-fitting jumper and an expensive jacket. He proceeds to spend an hour and a half either impatiently teaching Molly or glaring at John with his own fingers drumming away on the table. When 1730 chimes, Sherlock strides out the door, without saying a single goodbye. By then, Molly’s exhausted from Sherlock’s pestering, and John’s equally so from intensely frowning at Sherlock’s ever-changing, ever-creative insults.

At 1745, Mike comes back to their flat from his organic chemistry lab. All three settle down at the dining table at 1800 for supper. Molly and John tell Mike about Sherlock.

“Why do you even bother with this git?” Mike questions Molly. “He just sounds like a downright bastard.”

“He’s not that bad, actually,” Molly replies timidly. “Besides, my grade has gone up significantly since I’ve started having him as a tutor.”

Mike looks at John in disbelief and John shrugs.

\---

Another three-day weekend. Mike and Molly have gone home. John sits alone in the living area, staring at crap telly.

Suddenly, a sourceless anticipation hits John. His heart flutters for a second. He glances at the clock on the wall. 1558. He wonders if Molly has informed Sherlock this time. Maybe if Sherlock comes today, John will invite him in for a cuppa.

Sherlock doesn’t come.

1800\. John decides he’s not hungry and retires to his room. He falls asleep 23 minutes later.

John jerks awake at the sound of distant knocking. He glances at the clock on his desk. 0347.

“What the hell?” John grumbles and languidly walks down the stairs.

The knocking never stops. John opens the door. The dim streetlights are fighting against the thick and constant raindrops to light up the black night. A tall, dark figure is slouched against the doorframe.

“Sherlock?” John is suddenly very much awake. He lets the figure lean onto him, and carefully brings the man inside. “What’s happened? You’re soaked through. Are you all right?”

Sherlock groans as John lets him sit on the bottom stairs. John observes Sherlock’s broken bottom lip, a bleeding scar on Sherlock’s prominent right cheekbone, the extremely swollen left eye, and scratch marks on the long pale neck. There’s no doubt that there are bruises all throughout Sherlock’s body, covered in wet clothes. He’s shivering from the cold.

“Come on, the bathroom’s upstairs. Let’s get you a hot shower and dry clothes. I’ll fix up the visible scars after,” John helps Sherlock up. “Think you can do that?”

Sherlock groans. John assumes that it’s a ‘yes.’ He hopes that his limited medical training will be enough for the intruder. Dragging him to a hospital in this rain is out of the question.

John helps the man into the tub and turns around to let him strip. And of course the wall John turns to is covered by a giant mirror. He stares as Sherlock carefully takes off the tight jeans. He’s about to look up the legs to the bum, when Sherlock suddenly looks up and their eyes meet. John blushes wildly and jerks his eyes toward the loo. And thank the Lord, Molly is a clean freak and had decided to clean it just before leaving yesterday.

John hears the curtain closing and the shower being turned on. He glances at the tub to make sure that Sherlock’s covered, and takes the wet clothes. One great thing about the flat is that it has both the washer and dryer. John puts the clothes in the washer.

He contemplates what to give Sherlock for dry clothing. His own clothes are definitely too small for the tall man. Mike’s larger than John but shorter in height, so his clothes won’t work. Well, that leaves…

John enters Molly’s room and heads straight for the closet. He’s determined to not intrude on her personal space any further. He grabs for the one clothing big enough for Sherlock.

“John…” Sherlock’s weak voice muffles across the hall.

“Here.” John opens the bathroom just a bit to hand the man the hot-pink XXXL pyjama dress.

Sherlock takes the dress. “Really, John?”

“Well it’s either that or the bloody towel.” John is irritated. He had just invaded his friend’s privacy to help the man, after all.

“All right.” Sherlock mumbles. “This isn’t your’s, is it? I mean, I’m not questioning your fashion choices or anything… But-”

“It’s Molly’s, all right?” John is angry. “And what if it is mine? There’s nothing wrong with-”

Sherlock bursts the door open. The steam rolls out of the room and presents a tall man in extreme pink. “I was hoping it would be your’s. It would’ve been much more intimate. Much sexier,” Sherlock has lowered his voice even further somehow. It does things to John’s body in a way he doesn’t want to discuss with anyone. “You’re right. There’s nothing wrong with men wearing an obscenely pink dress. It’s quite comfortable. Very breezy. It’s like I’m naked, only I’m not really. Although I prefer to be naked at the moment.”

“Are you high?” John asks.

Sherlock dramatically gasps, “No, John. Why would you think that? I’ve never even done-”

“Drunk, then?” John pushes past the man and searches for the emergency kit under the sink.

“I don’t drink. It slows me down,” Sherlock says defiantly.

“When’s the last time you’ve slept?” John takes out a cotton swab and dips it in rubbing alcohol.

“Erm… Tuesday.” Sherlock leans in to give John better access to the scars.

John’s bum is placed against the edge of the counter. Sherlock’s huge hands are on the counter at both sides of John. John doesn’t think about their close proximity too much and dabs the rubbing alcohol on the cheekbone scar.

“You need to sleep,” John says.

“Sleep’s a waste of time,” Sherlock whines.

John puts the swab down on the counter and grabs the ointment. Sherlock’s face seems closer somehow. John decides that he’s the one who needs sleep.

“You have bags under your bloody eyes.”

“Is that a pun, John?” Sherlock growls softly.

John feels a slight - _very slight_ \- discomfort. “Damn right, it’s a bloody pun. But you still need sleep.” He puts a bandage on the scar. “You’re lucky my flatmates aren’t in. Molly would be all over you trying to help and Mike would run around for a taxi in this weather to take you to the hospital.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock muses as John dabs on the lip scar. “I suppose I am quite lucky you’re here all alone.”

John feels his ears turn red. He grabs for a small bandage and wonders if it is the right thing to do to put it on the man’s lip. He turns to look back at Sherlock and realizes that their faces are only an inch apart. Before he can do anything else, Sherlock closes the gap and places his soft lips on John’s.

John’s brain stops. His heart _thump-thump-thump_ ’s. Neither of them moves a muscle. Their lips are merely touching lightly but this is probably the hottest kiss of John’s life. Motionless as it may be, it’s a hell of a surprise kiss.

Before Sherlock begins to move his lips, John pulls back and cups Sherlock’s cheeks in his hands. So _this_ was the reason the kiss was so hot. Quite literally, too. The grad student is burning up. John figures that the scratches on the neck are shallow enough to heal themselves without getting infected. Operation: Get Sherlock Holmes into Bed is a go.

John carefully pushes Sherlock out of the bathroom and into his room. 0458. It’s a good thing it’s Saturday. When John tries to push Sherlock into bed, Sherlock refuses and proceeds to take off the dress.

“What do you think you’re doing?” John asks, wondering if he should turn around or leave the room immediately.

“Wearing it makes me feel like I’m not wearing anything anyway. What’s the point?” Sherlock remarks and flaunts his pale body, covered in blue-and-purple bruises. John has missed the chance to look away. “And it’ll be easier for you to transfer your body heat to me if we’re not covered in clothes.”

“Excuse me?” John really doesn’t know what to say to that. Well, he does, but he doesn’t want to waste his breath.

“You heard me. If you want to play doctor, then cure me. That is the best way to cure my fever, John. And don’t even bother trying to look innocent. I know you’ve had no less than 2 occurrences where you were intimate with a male in bed. We both know how we feel about each other. Stop wasting my time and get in bed. Fix me.” Sherlock babbles on.

John wants to slap him. “Your clothes are in the washer. I’ll go put them in the dryer. I’ll join you only if you’re sleeping when I get back in here.”

Sherlock smiles fondly. “Without your clothes on, John.” He gets under the duvet.

“That’s for me to decide.”

John undresses himself when he gets back to the unconscious man. Completely his own decision, he assures himself. Sherlock’s pale skin is really quite soft on John’s broad chest.

\---

“Oh, for God’s sake. How do you not know-”

“Sherlock,” John growls from his end of the dining table.

At John’s threatening voice, Sherlock immediately stops and breathes in heavily before politely pointing out Molly’s mistakes with great care. John is proud of him.

\---

“We should have sex.”

John moves his head toward Sherlock without taking his eyes off the laptop screen. He’s sitting up in bed, while Sherlock is lying next to him. Sherlock is intensely analysing the dark-brown mole on John’s abdomen.

“How did this come up? My mole turning you on?” John asks amused.

“You have needs. I know that you’ve masturbated on 16 different accounts in this room alone since we’ve started dating two weeks ago. We’ve already seen and felt each other naked - we’ve slept naked together, for God’s sake. Why not just do it?”

“You’re not really interested in sex,” John looks into Sherlock’s pale-green eyes. “Are you? You said that the act itself is a waste of time and precious brain capacity, or something like that. You’re the one who claimed to not understand all this fascination and obsession with sex. I just assumed we’d be taking it slow until I manage to convince you with my profound love and care.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I change my mind. Now I’m interested. And if we’re going to be together, I’d rather be the one to pleasure you than let your naked ladies on the computer do the trick.”

“All right. Let’s have sex. But please, for goodness’ sake don’t try to analyse anything while we’re getting off. Let me have my fun even if you don’t.” John turns back to the screen.

Sherlock proceeds to pull John’s head down for a kiss, meanwhile making a grab for John’s manhood with his left hand. John grabs his laptop to keep it from falling off the bed, then pushes Sherlock down into the mattress.

“Wait, now?” John asks.

“Of course,” Sherlock seems startled at John’s surprise. “Now. Sex. Yes.”

“Well, are we prepared? I don’t have a condom. Do you? What about lubricant? Hmm?” John accuses.

Sherlock peers into John’s deep-blue eyes, hoping that he’s joking about the preparations. John’s expression is that of dead-seriousness.

“I’m surprised you’re not prepared to shag, John. You’re the sexually active one. I’m quite new to this myself, you know.” Sherlock pouts, looking away from his lover.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to get off with you so soon. Besides, _you_ had the idea of having sex, not me. And you’re the one who loves doing research,” John retorts.

“Fine,” Sherlock rolls off the bed and strides out of the room and down the stairs.

John hears the faint ‘Sherlock!’ of Molly from the living room and the front door banging shut.

\---

“I got us the stuff,” Sherlock announces as he throws a couple of white plastic bags down on John’s bed.

John looks at the full bags suspiciously and dumps the contents onto the bed. Boxes after boxes of the various colors and sizes create a small pile, with a tube of STRAWBERRY FLAVOURED lubricant on top.

“This is what took you 2 bloody hours,” John sighs. “Sometimes I wonder how you’re 4 years older than me.”

“Age doesn’t matter. You said so yourself. And they carry so many types of condoms - I didn’t know which to get. This is why I always do research before doing anything. Do you see the EXTRA SAFE ones? What’s the point? If they have the ‘extra safe’ condoms, why bother having the other ‘not-so-safe-compared-to-the-extra-safe’ condoms? Who wouldn’t use the ‘extra safe?’ And the ones with flavours, John? I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer so I got them all.”

"Strawberry flavoured lubricant?"

"It was on sale. You always get things that are on sale. And you like strawberries." Sherlock smiles proudly.

"How could you possibly know I like strawberries?" John asks.

"How could I possibly _not_ know you like strawberries? Come one, John. Come on."

John reads the labels and logos on the boxes. Sherlock is indeed the most interesting development in John’s rather mundane university life.

\---

John picks up the lubricant and a red box of THIN FEELS. Sherlock swipes the other boxes off the bed with eager hands, and proceeds to violently kiss John while caressing his stomach under the pyjama shirt.

“Foreplay?” John breathes out into Sherlock’s mouth.

“Two weeks of foreplay, John. I would think that’s enough.” Sherlock plants chaste kisses on John’s neck as he unbuttons John’s shirt with shaking hands.

“Nervous?” John asks, smiling.

“First time. No research. It’s all new to me. I don’t like not knowing. But I do like learning. Excited, I should say. No, not nervous.”

John’s shirt comes off to reveal his pale torso. Sherlock grins, kneels in front of his lover, pulls John by the waste, and sucks on his left nipple. John moans. When Sherlock rubs the right nipple playfully with his left thumb, John’s weak knees almost give out.

“Sit,” Sherlock orders and gently pushes John onto the bed.

When the younger boy sits, panting with lust, the older man gently kisses down his abdomen, following the line of hair that hides itself under the elastic band of John’s grey pyjama trousers. Sherlock slowly pulls the trousers off, and John’s semi-stiff penis jerks out.

“Commando?” Sherlock looks up at John with great amusement, while stroking the growing manhood.

John blushes furiously. “Well, I wasn’t sure if you’d come back tonight. And my pants are too tight for comfortable sleep…”

“Excuses, excuses…” Sherlock drags out the _sss_ and comes back up to passionately kiss John.

When they part, John observes Sherlock’s magically naked body. John has seen Sherlock’s lean figure without any clothes on numerous times, but never with this enormous hard-on. He wonders how his anus will be able to take-

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m much too inexperienced to do the leading this time.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively and stands in front of John, waiting.

“Who wants to suck first?” John asks.

Sherlock drops to his knees and passionately sucks John’s hard-on. Just passionately. And eagerly. John lets the thought of ‘too much teeth, not enough tongue’ go for now. At least Sherlock wasn’t lying when he had said that he was inexperienced. More excuses for more practice. Good, good.

“Sherlock- Sher- Stop, stop. I’m cumming-” John whispers desperately through the groans.

Sherlock immediately takes John’s throbbing penis out of his mouth, and stops the pre-cum and everything else with his thumb.

“Bed. Lie on your back,” John commands.

Sherlock shoots up to his feet and jumps into bed. His gleaming body under the pale moonlight reminds John of a mermaid Harry used to read to him about whenever she would babysit him.

“Oh, God, you’re beautiful,” John murmurs as he sucks on Sherlock’s long neck. He lightly caresses Sherlock’s chest and stomach. He’s not interested in breaking Sherlock’s porcelain skin just yet. Later, he tells himself. This is their first time.

John runs his tongue down Sherlock’s body to the fully-grown bulge. Honestly, it’s too big for anyone’s good, John thinks. After running his tongue along the throbbing vein, listening to the dragged-out moan of Sherlock, John puts the cock in his mouth. He’s about to begin sucking, when his mouth fills up further with hot, sticky substance at Sherlock’s low shout. John wonders whether to swallow or to spit it out into the wastebasket. The wastebasket is 3 feet away, next to the desk. Whereas his own digestive system-

He swallows Sherlock’s cum down. “First time...”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-” Sherlock fumbles, covering his bright-red face with his arm.

John chuckles, “Don’t be embarrassed. I was worse my first time. But a warning might have been fucking brilliant. I’m shoving it all down your throat if it happens again, love.”

John puts on a condom and warms up a hefty amount of lubricant in his left hand. He’s not interested in studying the synthetic plastic taste of STRAWBERRY. Sherlock can do that himself. John carefully inserts his middle finger into Sherlock. He feels a surge of anticipation at the groaning man’s tightness. Soon, another finger joins in, then another.

“John, John, John- Just do it- Please, please, please-” Sherlock whimpers as John rubs harder and harder.

John finally takes his fingers out, rubs the lubricated palm on his own covered manhood. He aligns the head of the penis with Sherlock’s slightly-swollen anus. “Ready?”

“Yesss…” Sherlock hisses.

The event ends with Sherlock sprawled across the bed on his stomach, displaying his bum for his lover to admire. John sits next to him, gently massaging his waist.

“Should’ve put a pillow under your back. It’ll be sore when you wake up. My bad,” John whispers. “How do you feel?”

“Surprisingly okay." Sherlock looks up at John and smiles mischievously. “Let’s do it again.”

“Sherlock.” John rolls his eyes with exasperation.

“Well, we’ve got all these condoms. And I want to study the differences in performances and effects of them all. By the end of the month, if you’d allow it?”

John knows that it won’t matter whether he allows it or not.

\---

“I’m bored. Let’s have dinner.” Sherlock caresses the red bite mark on John’s left shoulder.

“Can’t. I have class in 20, remember?” John slaps the hand away from the sore bruise.

“But John…” Sherlock whines.

“God, just because you’re smart enough to have your all-powerful brother-”

“British government.”

“-arrange your schedules so that you’d only have to go to classes on exam days. I’m not like you. I’m average and I need to attend all my classes to graduate on time.”

“I offered to tutor you,” Sherlock pouts. “It’s not my fault you refuse all the time. We both know that you’re clever enough to get all the high marks with just my help, John.”

“You only know things related to chemistry and some biology, Sherlock. I take other classes, too, you know.”

“I know how to play the violin, too.”

“Yes, I hear they’re looking for surgeons who play the violin. And that reminds me. You still need to play me something. On your violin.”

“It’s in my flat. I’m not taking it out of my room. Something might happen to it. And you never come to my place.”

“I don’t like your flatmate and you know it. He’s too posh and arrogant. Fucking... show-off. And I’m not spending another second in the clusterfuck you call your room. I know you always sleep in my room or go to the lab to research to stay the hell out of there, too. I’ve got no intention of dying this young from breathing in God-knows-what you call ‘an experiment,’ thank you very much.” John gets out of bed and gets dressed for his evening class.

“Victor’s not bad. And I’m arrogant, too. You’re okay with me,” Sherlock reminds John.

“Okay, yeah. I know there aren’t that many people who don’t like you and I’m all up on those who do, but there’s just something about that guy.”

“Fine. You won’t have to see him again when we get our doctorates after this semester,” Sherlock sighs. “I guess I’ll just have you as my flatmate once we get our flat somewhere close to Bart’s.” With that, he leaves the stunned undergrad in the room.

\---

“John, marry me.” Sherlock holds his lover tightly from behind. He kisses John’s burning ear.

“Seriously? Now?” John replies sleepily as his mind drifts away into the post-coital haze.

“No, not now. When we’ve settled. After you’ve become a surgeon and I’ve established myself as a consulting detective. Marry me.”

“You’re willing to take me on as your awfully wedded husband?” John muses.

“Awfully?”

“Accurate.”

Sherlock breathes out a laugh and lovingly clasps John’s hand with his own.

\---

“I’m bored,” Sherlock announces loudly into the dark silence of the room.

“Go the fuck back to sleep,” John moans in Sherlock’s embrace. “It’s fucking 4 in the morning.”

“Time matters not when my brain’s corroding. Let’s do something. Anything. Everything.”

“If you shut the hell up and let me sleep for two more hours, I’ll take you out on a full-course date. The whole freaking day,” John growls.

“But-” Sherlock thinks better of it and shuts himself up.

The sun shines the bright Saturday morning, and John and Sherlock leave the flat before Mike and Molly are awake.

“Anything you want to do?” John asks.

“You’re the one taking me out. Entertain me.” Sherlock observes the empty street, save for a couple cars that pass them by.

They walk into a lovely little cafe, holding hands. Breakfast is lovely. The food itself is quite mediocre and Sherlock doesn’t eat much as usual, but the waitress is an avid supporter of ‘the adorable couple’ and the coffee’s free of charge.

It’s still pretty early in the morning, and not many shops are open yet. John looks up at the sky and sees a bird flying far ahead. _Bird? Duck? Ducks? Park!_ John drags Sherlock to the park, ignoring ‘But parks are stupid and boring. It’s all grass, grass, trees… Oh, and more grass.’

The 20-something man has fun, chasing around little ducklings and climbing up trees to collect flowers and leaves (‘Experiments!’) like a little child. A few homeless men join John at the bench to make remarks like ‘What a happy boy! I used to be so naive once. Ah, the good-old days...’

A woman in her thirties joins him and says, “I've got a boy myself. I know how hard it is to have an autistic person around. What you’re doing is very nice, my dear. Bless you.”

“He’s not-” John begins protesting but stops when he notices the tears in her eyes. “Oh, Nevermind.”

When they leave the park, Sherlock has acquired scars and minor tearings on his jumper and jeans from falling off a maple tree and battling still-sleepy geese. They stop at a nice French cafe for lunch, at Sherlock’s request. The food is exceptional. And expensive, but Sherlock has enough money to feed a small country, John suspects when he sees the platinum-member credit card. He reads the name on the card.

“Mycroft Holmes?”

“I steal his wallet when he’s being especially annoying. I suspect he knows but he lets me, which is even more annoying. So I spend as much as I can to spite him.”

“Right.”

They walk through a street lined with rows of clothing shops. They never let go of each other, not wanting to lose one another in the crowd rushing past them. It’s a busy Saturday.

“-Notice the ink stain at the forefinger. Hours of sitting and not a single paint stain? Must be- John? What are you looking at?” Sherlock is offended by the fact that John’s attention isn’t on him as usual.

Without a word, John leads Sherlock into the shop. HEMSWORTH’S: Clothing for Men. John requests for the coat at the display case. When the helper brings the fancy black coat out from the backroom, John throws it onto Sherlock. Sherlock puts it on and swirls around, as John looks on with gleaming pride.

“We’ll take it,” John announces.

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow.

“I’m paying for it. I still haven’t given you a birthday present. Now I’ve got enough money to pay for things. And you look brilliant in it,” John insists before Sherlock protests.

“It’s spring, John. I don’t want to be bathing in my sweat to bring you the joy and happiness of having gotten something for me,” Sherlock whines as John pays.

“Well, it’s not going to be spring forever. And you do get cold easily. You don’t have to wear it all the time, you know,” John says.

They have dinner at the quiet Italian place Sherlock likes. When they get back to John’s room, they engage in another round of Sherlock’s Sex-Position Experiment.

It hasn’t been half a year yet, but John feels like they’ve been together for years. He adores the feeling.

\---

“You really don’t have to wear it all the bloody time, Sherlock.”

“I like it.”

“Sherlock, you’re sweating like a pig.”

“I like it.”

“Sherlock…”

“John, I love this coat. Now get off my case and let me play.”

It’s 29 degrees in the room, even with the windows open. There is no sign of the cool evening breeze they have been hoping for. Molly and Mike have gone out to a pub across town. They’re truly missing out on Sherlock’s beautiful violin piece.

Sherlock plays ‘John’s Song’ completely naked, save for the thick wool coat, in front of the window. John lies on his stomach on top of the sheet, also naked, and listens until he drifts off to sleep.

\---

“What do you even see in the bloke?”

“Am I supposed to see something in him to date him?”

“But he’s a fucking twat! Have you ever seen him doing his little tricks and acting like he’s all clever and shite? We see through him. The freak’s not worth your time, mate.”

“You’re right. Sherlock Holmes is an arrogant son of a bitch who acts all high and mighty just to get people off his back. He doesn’t deserve me. I’m wasting my time with him.”

“Exactly-”

“Or better yet, _I_ don’t deserve him. I’m wasting _his_ time and dragging him down from being somewhere grander than in my fucking pants. He’s the best human being I’ve ever come to know and don’t you fucking tell me otherwise. He may be arrogant but he’s far too clever for you to inflict your judgment on. Call him a freak one more time and you won’t see the fucking daylight again. _Mate._ ”

\---

“So I haven’t seen Sherlock around for some time. Are you guys… okay?” Molly asks carefully over supper.

“Oh, he’s got to finish his research and write up the report. The semester’s almost over and I guess even he’s got to study for the exams.” John attempts to hide the feeling that’s been nagging him at the back of his mind for the past week. “He’s always come and gone without warning. He’ll turn up when he finds the time,” he adds to assure himself. “Mike’s lab’s taking long.”

“Appledore’s gone crazy with the exams this semester. They’re probably celebrating the end of it at the pub tonight,” Molly informs him.

\---

“Did you know, John? Are you all right?” Mike stands at the doorway to John’s room, looking concerned.

“Yes, yeah. I- Yes, I’m okay,” John says weakly. “Could you- Just leave me alone for a while? And close the door?”

“Call for me or Molls if you need us.”

When the door closes, John goes to sleep, feeling hollow.

Five weeks before the end of the semester, Sherlock Holmes had dropped out of school. He hadn’t answered any of John’s calls or texts. Or emails or everything else John had thought of.

Three weeks before the end of the semester, John had gone to visit Sherlock’s flat and faced Victor. Sherlock had moved out without having informed beforehand. Mycroft’s men had come and taken all of Sherlock’s things away.

Two weeks and 5 days before the end of the semester, John had heard the rumors going around the Chemistry Department. Sherlock Holmes had dropped out of his post-grad studies at the snap of a finger.

And John hadn’t known.

 

 


	2. Seb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's in the Army. Then he's not.
> 
> He meets new people. Things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's story. I think we can all deduce what's been happening to Sherlock all this time.  
> There are literally 3 lines of Sherlock in this chapter.
> 
> If you don't like my John, or my world of Moriarty, or even Sebastian Moran, skip this chapter. I'm sure it's not going to be necessary for you to understand the next chapter. 
> 
> I don't even know. I pretty much BS'ed through this chapter. The world is very new to me.
> 
> I've no idea how the British Army even works, so I tried really hard to not get too much into it.
> 
> I really like Fassbender!Moran. Just, FYI.

“Sir, you’re being summoned.”

“All right, on my way. Give me a moment to patch this up,” John answers, handling a bandage over one of his men, badly injured from the morning’s raid.

“Sir,” the staff sergeant salutes and leaves.

\---

“Sir, Captain Watson reports as ordered.” John salutes.

“Yes. Colonel, this is the good Captain Watson you’ve been inquiring about. I’ll leave you two alone without further ado. Don’t keep him too long, Colonel. The Captain’s much needed today - we’ve had too many casualties this morning.” The major-general leaves the tent.

“Colonel Moran,” the tall man in civilian clothing - well, as far as civilian clothing can go in Afghanistan - holds out a hand. “I should say, ex-Colonel, but I guess I’ve built myself up enough around here to still receive some respect. Call me Sebastian.”

“Captain John Watson,” John shakes the firm hand. “Sir.”

The blond man chuckles, “Sebastian.”

“Sebastian.” The name tastes rough on John’s tongue. It’s been so long since he’d called anyone by their first name. “You’ve been inquiring about me?”

“Yes, my boss is interested in your well-being. He wants to recruit you.” The man in his mid-30’s smiles. The warm smile has an underlying hint of venomous viciousness that John cannot miss easily. He certainly has seen a lot of blood in his military days. If John didn’t know any better, he could say that the stranger is still seeing some these days.

“Er, I’m doing quite well here, ...Sebastian. I’m not looking to be employed anywhere else at the moment.”

“No… You’re not. But we know that your contract is almost up and you’ll have to reapply to stay in the Army. It would be much more beneficial for you to come work for us.”

“How do you know that my contract is almost up?”

“We have our ways. My boss is very interested in employing you - and when I say that, I actually mean, he _demands_ it. And he has a tendency to get his way.” The man stares at John. Where has John seen that piercing look before?

“Erm, no, sir. I’m not interested.” John feels the danger lurking all around him and breathes in the surge of excitement. “I don’t know what your boss does to get his way, but I’d rather not be involved in it. Thank you, but no.”

“Hm, would it change your mind if we offered you any and all kinds of monetary funds you ask for?”

“No.”

“You’ll be very well-off if you agree to provide us your services.” The stranger’s smile vanishes. His expression is so serious that it’s almost frowning. “It would do you good to agree to our contract while you have a choice.”

John huffs out an irritated laugh. “Are you threatening me?”

“Let’s call it persuading. The thing is, if I don’t go back to my boss with your agreement, he won’t be pleased, which would make my day very unpleasant, which would in turn make one Harriet Watson very sad in every sense of the word.”

John’s breath catches midway. “No, you’re not touching my sister,” he snaps. Harry and he had stopped being on good terms since she had begun drinking long before John had joined the Army. However, she is still his sister and the last thing John wants is for Harry to be in harm’s way because of him.

“Well, I think, that’s really not for you to decide.” Somehow, there’s a mournful look behind the veil of the man’s dark-grey eyes. “You provide us the services, we keep your only remaining family safe. You don’t agree to work for us, bad things will happen to her until you do say yes, however long that might take. My boss is a very patient man, you see.” His threatening smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I still have about a year left of my contract.” John keeps a straight face.

“He wants you now. So, we’ll work something out for you. We’re nice enough to let you come to us without being a deserter. We don’t want a tainted name to come into the family.”

\---

John remembers shouting. Lots of yelling, more blood than he had seen in any one of his military days. The constant shots all around him. Bottles of antiseptics breaking, injured soldiers screaming to get out of the line of fire.

John remembers running out of ammo. He hesitates to put in more into his rifle when there’s a blinding pain, then nothing.

\---

It’s been so long - too long - since John has had the pleasure of walking on paved ground. Compared to the endless heat and dust of Afghanistan, London air seems fresh in his lungs. Re-adjusting to the London life would have been a pain in the arse, what with the shoulder injury that had nearly killed him, the psychosomatic limp, and everything else in between. However, he doesn’t have to re-adjust to the London life.

He still needs to be retrained to use a gun properly, since he’s lost the ability to correctly hit the target. The slight tremble in his hands leave him as soon as he holds a gun. Practicing hands-on combat removes the leg pain - John throws out the hateful cane.

“The Boss” never visits John, or anyone for that matter.

“I thought he wanted me?” John asks, swiftly dodging a punch to the face.

“Yes, he wanted you. Doesn’t mean he wanted to see you in person. He already knows everything about you, anyway,” Sebastian replies, hooking John’s left leg with his own and pushing the smaller man to the ground. “He likes to be in the shadows. Relaying messages to the lower ranks - _peasants_ , he calls them - through his _favourites_.” He holds John in a firm chokehold.

John thrusts his left elbow into Sebastian’s ribs and frees himself from the grip. “You’re one of his favourites, then?” he heaves out as he jumps on the other man’s sweaty back, gently yet firmly pushing the man’s throat toward the ground.

“A bit obvious, no?” The taller man taps on the ground in defeat. “You’re getting good.”

John helps the other man up, grinning. “You’re getting worse.”

\---

“So tell me.” John plays with his freyed jumper sleeve as they wait for the food.

“Let’s just say that James is a spider at the center of a web. Now, this web is made up of criminal organisations all over the world. He knows what goes on where at all times. He controls everything without ever doing the legwork. That’s for his lackeys like you and I.” Seb brushes the invisible dust off his white T-shirt.

“So we have no idea how he got information on us?” John asks, looking out the window of the cafe onto the busy street.

“Nope. People feed him information for criminal consultation. That’s how he gets ahold of information on all kinds of people all over the place. He chooses one he likes, employs him or her, and that’s that.”

Their food arrives. Sandwiches, soup, salad. The usual.

“You still don’t know why he wanted me?” John takes a bite of the salad. Bland, as usual. But it’s salad. He shouldn’t have expected so much from leaves.

“I didn’t even find out why he wanted _me_ until a year after I joined.” Seb bites into his sandwich and grimaces. Must be dry as usual.

“And you won’t tell me what you actually do other than relaying his messages, blackmailing civilians, and training the newbies?”

“Nope. Not yet, anyway. And I don’t train all the new bloods. Just you, Watson.” Seb smiles playfully.

“Yes, yes. Flattered,” John returns the smile and turns to his own sandwich.

\---

John holds out his half-empty water bottle toward the other panting man. Seb takes it and sits against the wall, next to John.

“Found a nice French place downtown. Dinner?” Seb asks.

“I’m not hungry,” John places his hot head on the other man’s sweaty shoulder. “Dinner sounds good.”

The restaurant is grand. So is the price, as it’s not even shown on the menu, but who really cares when you work for the most dangerous/powerful man in the world? John goes with what Sebastian’s having.

“Nice suit. Didn’t take you for a fancy man,” John remarks as he looks at the other man’s black suit.

“Right back at you, Watson. I was starting to think you bought yourself a vintage jumper factory. I think James might actually like what you’re wearing,” Seb replies. “Mine’s _Westwood_ , apparently. James insists that I wear it all the bloody time but I like me a T-shirt and jeans.” His carefree smile is quite dashing under the dim lighting of the restaurant.

“He buys you suits?” John inquires.

“I join him in important meetings. Suits are usually required. And he fancies dressing up his _pets_.” There’s no small amount of contempt at the last word.

“You didn’t agree to join the crew as easily as me,” John says carefully. “You don’t like him.”

“Ha,” Seb huffs. “I detest the bastard. But he’s my boss and I’m stuck with him for life. It’s not so bad if I overlook all the shite I’ve got to do for him.” He takes a sip of wine. “Mm, good stuff. Try it.”

“I don’t drink,” John protests.

“Ah. Harriet?”

“She started drinking when we were both in uni. It got so bad that she ended up having to drop out a month before graduation…” John stops and looks around the restaurant. “We just fell apart,” he says after a moment of silence.

“You still love her enough to put yourself in this situation to keep her safe,” Seb says.

“She’s family. All I got left. And, yes, I do still love her. I don't exactly have a choice there, I think.”

The food smells exquisite. It tastes even better. It’s nice to be able to afford these things, John supposes.

“I got myself a sister, too,” Seb speaks. “Younger. Mary Morstan.”

“Morstan?”

“That’s my real name. Sebastian Morstan. James thought it sounded too… nice and unelegant. Made me change it when I joined. Said Moran suits me better.”

“He threatened you with…?”

“She got herself lung cancer somehow. Cancer’s a funny little thing. She’s never smoked once in her life and bam! Lung cancer. She was 17.” Seb huffs out a humorless laugh. “We were orphaned when I was 13 and she was 12. We took care of each other all our lives. I was only 18 and obviously couldn’t afford to keep her alive so I joined the Army. Worked hard to move up the rank for higher pay. Wasn’t enough. By the time I made it to Colonel, one James Moriarty came along to sweep me off my feet. He offered to provide the best care for her, as long as I offered him my life. The devil.”

“You agreed right away, then.”

“In a heartbeat. She died last year at the ripe old age of 35. Left behind two beautiful little girls.” Seb blinks away the tears. “She was so strong. Beautiful, too. You would’ve liked her.”

“I’m sure.”

\---

John is led through a long, dark hallway of an empty business building. He steps into an equally dark room at the far end, and is greeted by a short man in an expensive suit.

“Heard you were curious to meet me,” the thick Irish accent says cheerily. “James Moriarty. Hi!”

John stands at attention unintentionally. Must be a force of habit.

“You can relax, you know. I’m not going to bite.” The dark man grins. “Not yet, anyway.”

John remains silent.

“Well, you’re shorter than I thought. I like my men tall and lean. Too. Bad…” When no reply comes, the man continues. “I finally have a job for you. You’ve been itching for something to… _do_ … I hear.” He glares at John.

John feels like he’s being stripped naked down to his soul. Where has he felt this way before?

“You’ll be joining me tomorrow. Be prepared.” With that, James Moriarty leaves the room out the door John hasn’t noticed until now.

 _What just happened?_ John stands in the dark and wonders.

\---

John, wearing a black suit and black tie, steps into a crammed room of five figures in black.

“You must be the new boy,” a burly man addresses John.

“Yes, yes. Hello,” John holds out a hand.

“Yeah, no. We don’t do that,” another muscular man says as he strides up to John. “Got a name?”

“Er,” John hesitates. The only person he had decided to trust when he had first joined Moriarty’s company was Sebastian. “Victor. Trevor. Victor Trevor.” He doesn’t linger on the reason he chooses the name. “Nice to meet you?”

“Well, Trevor. Let’s hope we survive tonight. Then we’ll have nice little intros at a pub or something.”

The six bodyguards arm themselves with guns and ammo.

They get out of the black van in front of an obscure warehouse. A black Jaguar arrives shortly after, and Sebastian exits the passenger seat to open the backdoor for Moriarty. John is about to smile when his eyes meet Seb’s, but the tall man in black ( _Westwood_ ) ignores him and enters the warehouse. The bodyguards surround Moriarty and follow suit.

They reach the end of the long passageway, where stacks of containers and metal boxes line the walls. A lean figure in a brown suit stands tall, mindlessly tossing a red apple in between his hands.

“Late,” his rough voice echoes through the warehouse. “Typical.”

“Somebody’s playing naughty,” Moriarty stands relaxed with his hands in his trouser pockets. “Thought we agreed not to go bloody today…” He cocks his head to the side.

John looks around the room at the containers. At the glimpse of a tiny reflected light on top of a blue metal box, his spine straightens in excitement.

“And I thought we agreed that your consultation be flawless,” the rough voice trembles with tense anger.

“Oh, it was. But then, I received a better offer from one of your _enemies_ and just had to provide them with better service.” Moriarty replies amusingly.

The man throws the apple at Moriarty. The fruit stops midair at the sound of a silenced bullet and bursts on the ground.

“I warned you about betraying me!” The man shouts in rage.

Moriarty smiles. “And I warned you about keeping information from me.” His head oscillates in a threatening manner.

With an outrageous cry, the man pulls out a gun and points it at Moriarty. Before he pulls the trigger, a gunshot is heard and he drops. John looks toward Sebastian to see the muscular man standing calmly with a pistol in hand.

Moriarty puts a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder and gently rubs it. “That was completely unnecessary, my dear,” he coos.

Another gunshot is heard. Before the burly bodyguard who had greeted John first drops, the rest turn towards their respective walls, covering Moriarty, and begin shooting. John is lost in the adrenaline rush that clears his head, which has been foggy since he had come back to London.

\---

John and a blonde female survive the battle with minor scars. A skinny boy in his early-20’s is shot in the stomach, and only survives with John’s medical knowledge. Moriarty appears from nowhere in particular and observes the way John calmly stops the blood flow with the help from Sebastian and the female.

\---

“You’re our physician, now,” Seb quietly announces during their lunch.

It’s been three weeks since John’s first job. John has been training with other men and women, building rapport with them by treating their injuries and giving medical consultations. He hasn’t been able to see Seb once in the time period.

“Where have you been?” John asks in turn. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Seb looks a bit weary. “But I do appreciate the fact that you’ve obviously missed me, Watson. Or should I say, Trevor?”

John chuckles. “I don’t trust anyone. But I grant you the permission to call me Watson.” He looks into the other man’s eyes.

“You’re our physician, now,” Seb repeats, looking away to his own plate of untouched pasta.

“Pity, I thought I did a damn good job as a bodyguard.”

“You did a fantastic job.” Seb smiles longingly into his pasta.

“Then why…?”

“We need someone with extensive medical knowledge. Someone who can deal with battle wounds and constant flow of bloody patients. You’ll be a travelling physician, actually. You’ll visit all our stations everywhere, treating our men and playing the all-respectable doctor.” He averts his eyes from John’s questioning gaze.

“Why?” John accuses.

“It’ll be good for you. You get to stay out of Jim’s constant scrutiny and you will get to see battle, I promise you that. No one’s going to touch you. If you haven’t noticed, doctors are pretty bloody rare around here. Jim never saw the point in recruiting doctors. ‘What’s the point?’ he always says. ‘People die all the time. It’s what they do.’ Every bloody time someone gets sick or injured on the job.” Seb breathes out deeply. “I finally persuaded him to put you on the job. Will you do it?”

“Yes, of course.” John licks his lips - a habit he has abandoned long ago. “Will I get to see you again?” he asks cautiously.

“It’ll happen. It will happen,” Seb sighs. “Someday.”

\---

The ex-Army doctor, Victor Trevor, is a popular man. Everyone likes him. When they are in need of a fighter, he volunteers to be the first in line. When there is a casualty from a job, Doctor Trevor is there for the rescue.

Everyone likes Victor.

John travels all over the world, taking care of Moriarty’s men. He is quite content with his job. Yet he feels somewhat hollow. A feeling long forgotten.

He misses…

\---

“Yes, yes! Moran! You’re so beautiful when you’re so helpless…”

Sebastian groans unintentionally.

"You're mine. Mine, mine, mine. I will break anyone who dares to touch my toy... You're mine, Moran."

Sebastian leans into the movements.  _Go with the flow. Go with the flow. It'll be over soon._

“Beautiful. Exquisite, just perfect. Plead, Moran, plead for more, my little bitch.”

Sebastian dispassionately growls, “Please, master. Fuck me more. Harder, harder. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Please.”

Moriarty comes down to bite Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian buries his face into Moriarty’s pillow. He doesn’t want his boss to see him not paying attention to this filthy act. The pain stops as hot liquid slides down his back and arm from the broken skin.

“Ah! Ah! Yes, yes. Scream for me! Scream like the bitch you are!”

“Rrrrg.. Ah! Hnnng. Arg! _John!_ ”

\---

“Mikhail,” A bearded man tersely answers the phone in a thick Russian accent. “Ah, Colonel Moran. What can I do for you today, sir?”

“I’m calling for John Watson. He’s needed in London immediately.”

“John Watson, sir? We have a pretty big crew here, sir. I’m not so sure if I’ve heard of a John Watson but I will relay the message and send him over promptly, sir.”

\---

Doctor Trevor doesn’t respond when the announcement calls for a “John Watson.”

They always call for Victor Trevor when he’s needed at another station. Sebastian knows to call for Victor Trevor, never John Watson.

Something’s wrong.

\---

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“Everyone.”

“Lestrade.”

“Everyone.”

“Molly.”

“Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested, you can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Off you pop.”

\---

_Moriarty’s dead._

Chaos ensues. As people who have been blackmailed into being there begin to run, and those who have liked being there stay and wait for a new leader, John immediately goes back to London. To Sebastian.

\---

_Beep-Beep-Beep-BeepBeep-BeepBeep-_

A pale hand reaches out from under the duvet and turns off the alarm.

“Hrrrnn…” A deep moan sounds as John squirms under the duvet. “It’s your day off…” The voice groans further.

John untangles himself with sheer willpower from the other man’s long limbs and gets out of bed. “Schedule change, remember? Sawyer’s having the day off - family emergency or something.”

The lump under the duvet stays still and groans further, “You’re too nice, Watson.”

“John,” the short man remarks and comes back toward the bed. “I prefer it when you call me John, Seb.” He bends down to plant a chaste kiss in between the other man’s squinting eyes. “You have work today, too, don’t you?”

“Late night job. I’m going to die of boredom without you, Watson.”

“Shut up. No one can die of boredom, Moran.”

“Morstan.”

“John.”

“Fine, John.” The man smiles languidly at John.

“Colonel Morstan,” John replies and returns the smile. “I might not see you today, then.”

“Then come back to bed. You’ll miss me.”

“I’ll survive.” John goes into the bathroom to get ready.

\---

The door bangs open from afar. John jerks awake and looks at the clock. 0542. Sebastian runs up the stairs into their bedroom. He rummages through the closet and takes out their duffle bags.

“Seb? What’s going on?” John watches the other man urgently throwing their clothes into the bags.

“It was a trap. The job. I’ve been discovered. Must have been Moriarty’s enemy. We’ll get caught if we stay in London. We need to leave. Anywhere outside the country. Let’s take the first flight.” He throws the bundles of emergency cash into the bags. “We need to leave. _Victor, now._ ”

John jumps out of bed at the command and runs into the bathroom for a quick wash. It’s been three years since Moriarty’s sudden death. Three bloody years since Seb and he had moved on from their previous life. Why would anybody care for either of them now?

\---

They arrive at the airport by 0700. Wearing plain T-shirts and jeans, Sebastian and John rush into the building with their respective bags. They have done this so many times in their first year since Moriarty’s fall. This isn’t new. Just keep cool and collected.

They buy the 0800 Stockholm flight tickets and calmly walk up to the benches.

“Hungry?” Seb asks, looking at John from under the blue visor of his cap.

“No,” John answers, looking back through his shades.

“Well, I’m famished. Let me grab some chips at least.” Seb gets up after planting a lingering kiss on John’s lips, and walks toward the food court.

\---

John waits and waits. And waits.

0745\. Four men in black walk up to John and surround him. John isn’t able to run anywhere. At this point, he doesn’t even care. He merely sits and waits for these strangers to take him away. Just the way they probably dragged Sebastian away from him. No one touches him.

The four men part to create an opening right in front of John. A tall men in a grey three-piece suit slowly walks toward John, twirling a large black umbrella rather unenthusiastically. A pretty woman follows behind him, her eyes constantly on her mobile phone.

“Doctor John H. Watson,” the ginger-haired man says in a posh accent. “You are to come with me.”

“Where are you taking me?” John asks as proudly as he can. He doesn’t get up from his seat.

“You will know when we get there.”

“And if I were to refuse?”

“It wasn’t a request.”

Reluctantly, John follows the man, leaving all his belongings at the bench.

 

 


	3. Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Mycroft, but he's awfully hard to write.
> 
> Sorry, this chapter might be disappointing.
> 
> Just remember, Mycroft knows what's up. He knows things that will happen. Everything he does, he does for a reason.

The umbrella-man leads John up the staircase. John hears a violin piece playing above. The emotion it’s conveying burns through his heart. The loss of someone he's loved - that’s all he can think about.

“Mycroft,” a deep voice calls when the umbrella-man steps into the dusty, disorganised living room.

John stops his movement abruptly. He can’t see past the tall man in front of him but he knows that voice. His heart pounds loudly in his chest. His organs twist and turn in the most painful way, while his brain… Well, his brain has stopped thinking the moment it has processed the long-forgotten voice. His eyes are locked on the floor, as they are conflicted between the urge to tear up and the need to glare at the point of origin of the voice. His hands clamp into quivering fists; his shoulders tremble to remain square; his teeth clench shut to bite back whatever his tongue wants to say. His spine, his straining neck, his burning ears… _An internal conflict at its finest_ , John thinks. A moment of this stasis later, John decides to go bold and looks up toward the window with a blank face. All of his inner turmoil hides behind the mask he had perfected during the years of military training.

Sherlock Holmes in a grey dress shirt and black suit trousers stands silently by the window. Sherlock Holmes, wearing a shocked expression on his rather aged face, slowly lowers the violin from his chin. He remains standing forlornly by the window. His body screams 'lost child,' but his grey-green eyes... His eyes pierce through John's figure, much more analytically than John had ever experienced the scrutiny. His expression is now a mixture of longing, sadness, and... _Is that betrayal?_

“I’ve always found reunions rather tedious,” the umbrella-man announces, breaking the heavy silence. “I see there will not be a need to waste our time rejoicing in one another’s arms. Doctor Watson, come and take a seat. There is a discussion to be had.” He points at the red chair opposite him with his black umbrella.

John looks back at the older Holmes and strides over to the chair as proudly as he can. John feels Sherlock following his movements with his piercing gaze. “I assume you’re still the British government, then,” he says as casually as he can, but the underlying tension in his soft voice is still apparent.

“I still merely occupy a minor position in the British government,” Mycroft answers equally coolly, but he seems to be better at hiding his own tension. “But that is irrelevant.”

“Sebastian,” John says.

“Pardon?” Mycroft quirks his head, placing his hands neatly on the umbrella.

“What have you done with Sebastian? Where is he?” John demands.

“We have him in custody. We all know very well what he had done for James Moriarty, and the jobs he has been engaging in for the past two years. You don’t expect to see him again, do you, John?”

“Don’t-” John breathes out deeply. “Don’t call me that.”

“I assume Doctor Watson shall suffice. Unless ‘Victor Trevor’ is preferred? Although, I regret to say that you don’t quite suit the name, Doctor,” the British government says sternly.

John sees Sherlock’s eyebrow raise slightly through his peripheral vision. “You know what I’ve done for Moriarty, then. If you’re going to keep Seb in one of your dungeons and torture him, I insist that I join him. I’ve no business here.”

Mycroft sighs, “I would like to assure you that we are not keeping him in any dungeons. And we have no use for whatever information you have to provide us. I want to offer you a job, Doctor Watson.”

John rolls his eyes. “What makes you think that I’d be willing to take anything you have to offer?”

Mycroft looks at John without answering. A few seconds later, he says, “You have a tendency to attract dangerous minds.”

“What?”

“When you first associated yourself with my brother, I wondered…”

John watches Mycroft Holmes playing with the umbrella handle.

“Then when you joined the Army, I realized-”

“What? You- What the bloody hell are you saying? You’ve been-”

“Then your association with Sebastian Moran… You’re addicted to a certain lifestyle, you must admit.” With that, the older Holmes takes out a small voice recorder from his briefcase. “Yes, I’ve been keeping an eye on you. It’s not everyday someone becomes interested in my brother. At first, I worried that you might be the downfall of Sherlock Holmes.” He presses PLAY.

_“What do you even see in the bloke?”_

_“Am I supposed to see something in him to date him?”_

_“But he’s a fucking twat! Have you ever seen him doing his little tricks and acting like he’s all clever and shite? We see through him. The freak’s not worth your time, mate.”_

_“You’re right. Sherlock Holmes is an arrogant son of a bitch who acts all high and mighty just to get people off his back. He doesn’t deserve me. I’m wasting my time with him.”_

Mycroft quickly stops the recording. Sherlock looks out the window - John can’t see his face. John’s stomach churns. Frankly, he doesn’t even remember saying any of this, but the voice is definitely his.

“You do realize that this recording was enough to convince my brother to stay away from you,” Mycroft’s ice-cold eyes stare at John’s pale face. “Even when it was over between the two of you, I was still curious as to what kind of character would be interested in Sherlock.”

“I’m not addicted to any kind of lifestyle, as you say,” John says quietly.

“Yes, you are.” Mycroft takes out a laptop from the briefcase. “One would imagine a war hero like yourself would be haunted by memories of military service.”

A black-and-white video plays on the screen. The quality of the video is quite bad, but John can still make out his own face. The look on the face as he shoots at something - _or someone_ \- is unmistakably that of elation and glee. _It’s really not decent_ , John must admit.

“This was taken in Barcelona 4 years ago. Not the face of a man who had been held by Moriarty against his will,” Mycroft says as he closes the notebook.

“I’ve moved on. If you’ve been keeping watch on me, you would know that I’ve been doing rather well, working as a surgeon in a small clinic,” John defends himself.

“But you knew what Sebastian Moran has been up to. I imagine having a partner who engages in danger must have been sufficient-”

“What has Seb been up to? What are you talking about?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “He has been working as a contract killer. Do you mean to tell me that you did not know what he had been doing all this time?”

 _No._ John had believed everytime Seb had told him he ‘fixed some mechanical shite for the guys at the factory downtown.’ _How foolish._

One of Mycroft’s suit-men comes into the room with two large duffle bags. He leaves them wide open in between Mycroft and John.

“You wouldn’t even have to be clever to figure out what he had been doing with all this guns, one might think,” Mycroft murmurs as he picks up a sniper rifle from Sebastian’s bag.

John rubs his face in frustration. He always thought himself to be pretty clever. Never has he ever been so wrong. “Are you going to kill him?” he asks.

“It took us a year of careful planning to set up a trap elaborate enough to catch him. Obviously, if he hadn’t hesitated to bring you along, he would have gotten away rather easily. No, he was the only one Moriarty had confided in. It would be silly of us to exterminate him without getting some answers first.”

“What is this job you’re offering me?”

“I would appreciate it if you would agree to protect my brother.”

 _What?_ John cocks his head toward the other man in surprise. He can see Sherlock grimacing at his brother from the far side of the room.

“Do you know why James Moriarty died, John?” Mycroft asks quietly.

“No.”

“He was rather obsessed with Sherlock. He forced my brother into committing suicide three years ago. For some reason - which I suspect to have been you, John - Sebastian Moran shot and killed Moriarty, rather than help him fake his own death. For that, I let you two live your own happy ending for a few years. Of course, Moran had begun to indulge again and we were forced to put a stop to him.”

John remains silent.

“My brother tends to attract dangerous criminals,” Mycroft continues. “You have a certain affiliation for a dangerous lifestyle, John. You are also very skilled with a gun, and have the means to protect my brother from these such individuals while presenting yourself as a harmless creature. I ask you to reside here as Sherlock’s flatmate and keep an eye on him. You would benefit from taking on my offer.”

“As well as providing you a way to keep an eye on me,” John adds.

“No, John. You and I both know that you don’t need to be close by for me to watch you,” the older Holmes says. “I merely want to…” He closes his mouth and averts his eyes to the umbrella.

“What makes you think that I would want to protect... _him?_ ” John asks rather sharply.

Just then, a cheerful “Yoo-hoo!” is heard from the door and an old lady comes into the room with a tray of a flowery tea set and scones. “Oh, I thought I heard voices. I just took out a fresh batch of scones and thought you could use a nice cuppa, dears. Got yourself a client, Sherlock?” She looks over at John as she comes toward him with the tray.

“Er, I’ve come to see the flat, actually,” John quickly says. “I hear there’s vacancy here?”

“Oh, yes. I’m Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. Would you be needing two bedrooms?” the lady smiles expectantly.

“Of course we’ll be needing two.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve got all sorts around here. Upstairs, my boy.”

Mrs. Hudson hobbles upstairs. John follows, ignoring the hint of amusement on Mycroft’s face and surprise on Sherlock’s. The room is quite small but clean, containing a small closet and a bed. It reminds John of the one he had used back in his uni days. He abruptly turns around and walks down the staircase.

“So what do you think, erm…” Mrs. Hudson asks when they both step back into the living room.

“John. John Watson is my name,” John replied. “It’s nice, very nice. How much-”

“I’ll be taking care of the rent.” Mycroft smiles softly from the chair. “Mm, do I smell something burning, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh, dear. My biscuits!” The landlady rushes down the stairs.

“I would like to keep my flat,” John announces as he sits back down on the red chair. “I don’t care about being paid but I want to have access to anything I need. And I obviously need a gun.”

“Obviously,” Mycroft agrees. “Anything you need will be provided. Your previous flat will be available to you whenever you’ll be in need of it.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock voices at last.

Mycroft ignores his brother. “I suppose you’ll want to be able to get out of this deal one day.”

“I’ll move in tomorrow.” John gets up, grabs the bags off the floor, and turns to leave. Just then, a thought occurs to him. He turns toward Mycroft and presses PLAY on the voice recorder, residing on the armrest of the black chair.

_“Exactly-”_

_“Or better yet, I don’t deserve him. I’m wasting his time and dragging him down from being somewhere grander than in my fucking pants. He’s the best human being I’ve ever come to know and don’t you fucking tell me otherwise. He may be arrogant but he’s far too clever for you to inflict your judgment on. Call him a freak one more time and you won’t see the fucking daylight again. Mate.”_

Silence fills the room as the tape stops on its own.

“Apologies must be made, John… My own selfishness-” Mycroft’s eyes remain fixed on his umbrella.

John holds up a hand to stop him from continuing. Through his peripheral vision, he can see Sherlock looking at Mycroft with a face of mixed emotions. John turns toward the door. He pauses when he sees a familiar black coat hanging on the door. John takes in a deep breath and walks out.

\---

They don’t speak at all. Well, John doesn’t speak to Sherlock, really. Sherlock just glances at John every few seconds, like he’s constantly walking on eggshells.

\---

Sherlock takes John to crime scenes. Sherlock doesn’t say anything - he merely stands by the open door with his coat on until John walks out the room with a Browning in his jeans.

\---

The DCI - Lestrade, John finds out during one of Sherlock’s quick phone calls - always eyes John strangely. John smiles awkwardly back everytime, until the unsure looks stop.

\---

“John, what do you see?”

John has been zoning out. At the baritone voice calling out his own name, he jerks forward without a moment’s hesitation. He gets down next to Sherlock, and looks over at the corpse.

“Er, middle aged man…” John utters out.

“Really, John? You’re a doctor, and that’s all you can do?” Sherlock’s voice carries a hint of amusement.

“You took me by surprise,” John says defiantly. “Blunt force trauma to the head…” He further examines the body. Might as well - the lack of the anticipated ‘dangerous criminals’ has been boring John out of his mind. “Ink stains on the forefinger - breath smells strongly of alcohol - wears glasses, not present at the moment-”

“Brilliant, John!” Sherlock yells out. “The glasses, Lestrade. Where are they?”

“What glasses?” the DCI asks bewildered.

“The man wore glasses at all times. He kept them on even when he was completely intoxicated. The killer took the glasses after his death - for some reason, a reason…” Sherlock’s eyes become hazy for a moment. “His brother. Twin brother, in fact. Bring him in for questioning. Their wife, too.”

“You mean wives?” Lestrade asks, even more confused.

“No, their wife. One. You’ll know when you hear their story,” Sherlock says. “Come along, John.”

John follows after Sherlock’s swishing coat.

\---

John sits at his red chair, reading the newspaper.

“Tea, John?”

John looks up at the other man, towering over the chair. Sherlock seems unsure. Very much so.

“Tea, John?” he repeats. “I had leftover water from an experiment, and just thought-”

“Probably best to leave out the explanation about the experiment,” John replies. “Tea would be nice. Thank you.” He takes the mug from Sherlock’s hands. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He smiles.

\---

“I’m starving,” John announces as he steps into the kitchen. He passes Sherlock, hunched over an experiment on the table. “Anything in?”

The fridge is exceptionally clean. No decaying flesh, no bags of coagulated blood, no petri dishes of growing colonies. And of course, no milk, no food. But it’s still something.

“Did you… clean?” John frowns at the faint smell of chlorine.

“The foot exploded,” Sherlock replies tersely. “It was a mess.”

John looks at Sherlock, eyes fixed hard on the eyepiece of the microscope. John huffs when he observes the lack of a slide on the stage. At that, Sherlock glances at John suspiciously.

“Something wrong?” Sherlock asks.

John smiles knowingly at Sherlock’s slightly-flushed face. “I’m starving. Angelo’s?”

\---

John looks out the window of the taxi. He enjoys the night lights of London.

Suddenly, he feels a soft brush and looks to his left hand. Sherlock’s long fingers linger close by, in a very indecisive manner. John looks up to the detective. The man’s resolutely facing the window, as if it might contain the secrets of the universe.

“I can see your reflection, you know,” John remarks softly. He sees the hint of fear in Sherlock’s reflection.

John places his hand on Sherlock’s immobile one.

\---

Finally a thrilling chase occurs. John thanks God for this case. He had been rather bored.

The murderer runs into the dark alley, and Sherlock’s long legs carry him after the woman. The consulting detective may have been blessed with longer legs, but John has had more training. John passes Sherlock, flicking the safety of his Browning off.

“Gah!” yelling in frustration, the woman stops at the fence. She turns back to her chasers, standing about 50 feet away. Sherlock raises his arms when he sees the dark figure pointing a gun at him. John aims his own gun at the figure.

Two gunshots simultaneously boom through the silent London evening.

John doesn’t thank God for this case.

\---

The woman falls, screaming in agony.

John falls forward on his hands and knees, spitting out hot liquid from his mouth.

Sherlock runs toward his companion, desperately yelling, “John!”

John feels the bullet lodged deep inside his throat, as a rush of blood runs down his neck and soaks through his jumper. His favourite jumper, he thinks. He can’t breathe. The rate at which he drools out the blood through the open mouth will never match the rate of the liquid rushing into the throat. He’s choking on his own blood, gasping for air that doesn’t go past his larynx.

Feeling the tears running down his face, panting at the lack of air, fighting against the constant flow of blood, John looks up at Sherlock. John wants to wipe the tears off of Sherlock’s contorted face, but his shaking arms are about to give out. He sees Sherlock’s lips moving, but his thumping eardrums prevent the detective’s voice from flowing into his brain.

Oh, what John would do to hear Sherlock’s voice one last time.

\---

Sherlock feels John’s fingers twitch in his own hands. Sherlock looks up at John’s worn face. He waits and waits until John remains unconscious in the hospital bed. Sherlock falls asleep, sitting on a small stool next to the bed.

\---

John hears the soft _beep-beep-beep_ and opens his eyes just a bit. It’s dark in the room. He turns his head as far as the bandages wrapped around his neck will allow, which isn’t much. A dark ball adorned with wildly curly fluff rests on John’s numb arm. John squeezes on Sherlock’s hand as tightly as he can, and falls back into deep unconsciousness.

\---

They take the bandages off. The red scar is much too visible for John’s liking. At least he has been able to cover up the shoulder scar. This new one won’t be that easy to handle.

His throat is still sore. Thankfully, he’ll still have his voice, but the doctors don’t recommend speaking for another week.

Sherlock hasn’t left his side for the past three weeks. When the doctors leave the private room, John looks at Sherlock’s figure, worn with exhaustion. John reaches up to tidy down the detective’s dishevelled curls. It doesn’t work, but it makes the detective smile warmly.

‘Have you eaten at all?’ John mouths out, knowing that the other man will understand.

Sherlock averts his hollow eyes toward the window and climbs up next to John without answering. John moves to his edge of the tiny bed to make some room. Sherlock tightly wraps his arms around John’s body, and plants soft kisses on John’s forehead. John leans his head against Sherlock’s broad chest.

“You need a shower,” John whispers against Sherlock’s sweat-scented grey shirt.

“You need to shave,” Sherlock whispers back. “You don’t hear me complaining.”

\---

Sherlock swears to be an amazing caretaker, and the hospital discharges John two days earlier than planned. John speculates that it’s probably Mycroft’s doing, but he doesn’t say anything. His throat is still sore, and he can tastes a hint of blood on his tongue, but John is just glad to be back at Baker Street. _Home._

Sherlock never lets John out of his sight.

“This isn’t what a good caretaker does, Sherlock.” John finally complains in exasperation. “At least let me use the loo in peace.”

Sherlock pouts hard from the open door of the bathroom. John glares at the tall man from the sink. The staring contest ends with an unlocked bathroom door and Sherlock hanging around right outside.

\---

Domestic bliss.

Every morning, John come down from his room and walks into the kitchen. Sherlock hands him a mug of earl grey, demanding payment. They proceed to have a long kissing session with stale morning breath and the warm mug in between them. Sherlock brushes his lips on John’s neck scar then goes back to his experiment of the day. John takes a sip of the lukewarm tea - he never complains about it, as it must be his own fault for waking up so late (7 am) - and goes into the bathroom.

Then they spend the day, greeting clients or visiting crime scenes or chasing criminals. Whatever the consulting detective and his bodyguard fancy.

Domestic bliss indeed.

\---

John tries on various types of shirts and jackets to see if anything will cover the newest scar. Nothing works and he gives up.

Sherlock hands him a small box wrapped in newspaper.

“Is it my birthday?” John asks.

“I don’t know. It’s Saturday, according to the papers,” Sherlock replies nonchalantly.

“Yes, if today’s in the year 1975. And you know when my birthday is.” John unwraps the box.

“Obviously, I don’t even know what today’s date is, so I wouldn’t know if it were your birthday, would I?” Sherlock throws himself on the sofa and turns to face the wall.

John sighs and opens the box. A green silk scarf. Expensive, no doubt. He loves it already.

“I love it,” John announces. He kisses Sherlock’s pale cheek and walks up to the door to hang the scarf by Sherlock’s blue one. “Thank you, Sherlock,” he says.

\---

“We should have sex.”

They are crammed on the sofa, Sherlock tightly holding onto John. John doesn’t take his eyes off the telly. If it weren’t for Sherlock’s constant caressing of John’s stomach, John would have thought that the other man had fallen asleep hours ago.

“It’s only been two weeks,” John says quietly.

“Six months,” Sherlock says.

“Two weeks since the hospital,” John says. “Let’s take it slow this time, yeah?”

Sherlock groans and buries his face in John’s short hair.

\---

John walks upstairs to their living room. He smells Mrs. Hudson’s blueberry muffins from her kitchen. He would join her for tea, but the Tesco bags in his hands are cutting off the circulation in his fingers. Maybe he’ll drag Sherlock down with him later.

John hears soft murmuring when he steps up to the closed living room door. _A client?_ He should step in, but something stops him.

“-You planted his information…” Sherlock’s voice.

“It was the only way, you must understand. Brother mine-”

John opens the door to the living room. The soft voices abruptly stop, and John faces Mycroft’s towering form.

“John,” Mycroft nods slightly and walks out.

John looks at Sherlock, sitting grim-faced in his black chair. “What’s going on? New case?” John asks.

Silently, Sherlock strides away into his own bedroom.

 _Childish feud_ , John thinks and puts down the bags on the kitchen table at last.

\---

Sherlock sulks in his room. John checks on him from time to time, asking if he needs anything. No answer.

Sherlock sulks on the sofa. Sherlock sulks in his chair. John leaves a mug of tea close by. It goes untouched. They don’t speak.

John goes to the pub with Mike and Molly. They talk about Mike and Molly. They talk about Sherlock. They don’t talk about John.

\---

After a night at Mike’s flat, John goes up to Baker Street, slightly hungover and exhausted. He needs more sleep. He takes off his scarf, when Sherlock gently pushes him out the door from behind.

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” John walks down the stairs, feeling Sherlock’s hands on his back.

“A case, John,” Sherlock answers softly.

The corpse of a middle-aged man has a Greek alphabet ( _lambda_ , Sherlock notes) behind its left ear. Fourth body. As Sherlock examines the corpse, John stands with Lestrade by the door, quietly chatting about the serial murder.

“John,” Sherlock calls.

John looks over the body. No sign of physical abuse. No indication of medical problem. Nothing out of the ordinary, John admits. “I don’t- I got nothing,” John says, defeated.

“Don’t be an idiot. How could you miss the tan line on his wrist? The pollen in the crease of the hood? You couldn’t possibly have missed the lack of a wedding ring. A child with half a brain could get more than ‘nothing.’ Aren’t you supposed to be clever? Did you not learn anything while you spent so much time with me? Are you getting old? Brain deteriorating even further-”

John straightens his back and squares his shoulders. Never has Sherlock ever insulted him. Not when they were in university, and definitely not when John had moved into Baker Street. John had never let it happen, and Sherlock had known never to do that to him. John glares at Sherlock, wildly throwing out his observations and insults.

“-So incredibly thick-” Sherlock goes on.

John turns around, forcefully pulling off the latex gloves. Lestrade stands by the dustbin, worriedly examining John’s blank face.

“Sherlock, that’s enough!” Lestrade yells.

John throws the used gloves into the bin and stomps out the door. He walks out the building, gritting his teeth. He can still hear Sherlock’s voice, taunting his intelligence. Or lack thereof. He tries to take in deep breaths to calm himself. The cool morning air clears his head up a bit.

He walks out to the street to get a taxi, and notices a fancy black car following him. He gets in.

“I’m to take you home,” Mycroft’s PA says, never taking her eyes off her mobile.

“Home…” John mutters bitterly. He doesn’t want to go back to Baker Street now.

They arrive at his flat - the flat he had lived with Sebastian so long ago. Mycroft must have been keeping it clean. Nothing’s changed, except the lack of all things that had belonged to Seb, and the aura of an unoccupied house. John indulges in the emptiness.

Everything he needs is there. His clothes he hadn’t bothered to bring to Baker Street, the telly, new toiletries… But the fridge is empty. He suddenly hears his stomach grumbling.

\---

John stays in the empty house for a week. He has thought about going back to Baker Street many times, but has changed his mind. He’s not giving in that easily. Not until Sherlock apologises first, at least.

Sherlock doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. John is frustrated.

He’s sick of take-outs. He finally decides to fill up the fridge. Might as well.

\---

Another week passes. John is bored. Money flows into his bank account at the courtesy of Mycroft. He doesn’t need to work. He still should get a job. He really should. But he’s just not sure if, or when, he’d go back to…

John visits the clinic he used to work at. His former co-workers greet him cheerfully. Too cheerfully. John doesn’t give them his CV.

He visits a pub for a pint. Rugby doesn’t interest him. He strolls the dark streets back to his flat. Maybe he should learn to be more benevolent and forgive Sherlock just this once.

John fumbles with his keys and opens the door. He passes the lit kitchen and walks up the stairs into the bedroom.

As soon as he walks into the room, someone grabs him from behind and firmly holds him against the wall. John can’t move against the hold. He only stares into the darkness, eyes wide open. The intruder violently devours John’s lips. John’s heart bumps against his chest, but there’s really nothing he can do about the other man, so obviously consumed by lust. John feels the tall man’s erection against his own thigh.

“Did you miss me?” Sebastian growls into John’s ear.

\---

The dark figure eagerly throws John onto the bed.

“God, I missed you…” Sebastian repeats over and over, as he forces the clothing off John’s squirming body.

“Seb, this really isn’t-” John attempts to protest, biting back the whimpers.

“I missed this,” Sebastian ignores John’s objections, and bites down on John’s neck and chest.

John groans, “Please, don’t-”

“No, no, it’s been months - I need this - I need you - We’ll get out of this shitehole once we’re done, yeah? - I told you I’d protect you - I promised us a really good ending - And that’s exactly what we’re gonna get, my sweet princess - Fucking beautiful - Exquisite - Mine, mine, mine-” Sebastian pants as he places wet kisses on John’s skin.

John covers his teary face with his arm. He mouths out ‘No, please, no, stop, please…” repeatedly, but the words don’t come out.

Sebastian turns John over to his stomach. Massaging John’s unwilling penis, he licks John’s arse. John moans when he feels the man’s rough tongue on his opening.

“Couldn’t find any lubricant around here,” Sebastian remarks as he comes up to lick John’s shoulder scar. “Guess it’s a good thing. You haven’t been unfaithful, John. Good boy.” His hand never leaves John’s grown penis. “I suppose olive oil should suffice… You like olive oil, don’t you John? See, I remember these things. I’m a good lover, don’t you agree?”

Sebastian enters into John with very little care. John buries his face into the sheet, yelping into the soft fabric. The sheet instantly becomes wet under his face - wet with saliva, wet with tears, wet with sweat.

\---

John slips out from under Sebastian’s body. The man is very bony and scrawny, compared to the last time John had seen him. John doesn’t care. He’s just thankful that Sebastian Moran had been so deprived of sex that hours of toying with John has left him nearly comatosed.

John puts his clothes back on and limps downstairs to the kitchen. He sends a text.

\---

Mycroft’s men barge into the house. John walks out, dazed.

The last time he had checked the time, it was 0249. But that was a million years ago. It’s still dark outside.

John thinks he sees Mycroft, leaning against the hateful umbrella by the government-issued car. John ignores the man and limps along the sidewalk. Maybe he should have kept that cane.

Mycroft walks alongside him. John doesn’t acknowledge the other man, and the man remains silent. They walk and walk until the streetlamps turn off and the sun comes up to brighten the day.

“You should let your prisoners have more sex,” John murmurs blandly.

“I’m sorry, John,” Mycroft responds.

“He used to be so gentle with me, you know,” John says.

“He managed to escape somehow and you were our only chance-”

“At least give them some pornography,” John refuses to hear what the other man has to say. “It might help. Incentive, you know?”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me.” For a man who never engages in legwork, Mycroft Holmes keeps up with John quite well. But then, John _is_ limping. “In fact, I ask that you never forgive me, John. I’ve hurt both you and my brother for my own selfish reasons.”

John doesn’t say anything. They continue to walk side by side.

The men step onto a familiar street. John takes in the glimpse of the red tarp of SPEEDY’S far ahead.

“I forgive you,” John says softly.

“Pardon?” Mycroft looks at John in surprise.

“I forgive you,” John repeats.

“John, please. You don't have to-”

“For a very clever man, you’re not that clever,” John mumbles. “I forgive you, Mycroft Holmes. Now you have to live with it. I don’t have to - I’m just left with this scar but at least I have a clear conscience. This is me giving myself a peace of mind. You live with it all. Apology accepted.”

“Please…”

John ignores the pained look on Mycroft’s face. “I forgive you,” John says with a blank expression and walks into 221B.

\---

John slowly walks upstairs, listening to Sherlock’s violin. ‘John’s Song,’ he recalls the name of the tune.

Sherlock, wearing his blue dressing gown, is facing the window. John lingers at the door, silently staring at Sherlock’s back.

After a while, John limps to the bathroom, draws a hot bath, and falls asleep in the soothing water, listening to Sherlock’s unending music.

\---

When he wakes up in cold water, John rubs hard at every inch of his wrinkled skin.

The ritual’s over and he slowly steps out of the bathroom in his striped bathrobe he doesn’t remember having being there when he had gone in.

John walks upstairs. He stands at the threshold and stares blankly into the empty room. His stomach churns. The hand that holds firmly onto the doorknob quivers violently. John stares and stares at the neatly-made bed.

“I’m sorry,” a soft voice sounds from behind.

John turns away from the room and looks up at Sherlock’s face. For a man pushing 40, Sherlock’s face displays one of a 5-year-old. Innocent and lost. Sherlock opens his arms and John slowly falls into the man’s chest. The tall man holds him securely.

A minute or so of this, and John begins to shake. He cries and cries. The thick teardrops soak through Sherlock’s shirt. John breathes in the man’s smoky scent. The event ends with John shivering slightly.

Sherlock kisses John’s dried hair. “Sleep with me, John. I won’t hurt you. Not anymore, I promise,” he whispers.

\---

John wakes up in unbearable heat, covered in Sherlock’s scent. He pulls his head out of Sherlock’s hungry embrace, gasping for air. Really, for a man with this much body heat, Sherlock Holmes gets cold way too easily.

John rubs his swollen eyes and looks at his lover’s pale face. “I love you,” he sighs and gently places his lips on Sherlock’s prominent cheekbone.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock murmurs in his sleep.

“You’re awake?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

“Sherlock, are you awake? If you are, it’d be awfully nice for you to untangle yourself from me so I can actually breathe. I’m suffocating here.”

Sherlock doesn’t move.

“We should have sex,” John whispers.

Sherlock’s eyelids readily open to reveal his bright-green eyes.

John smiles. “Get the fuck off me, you silly man-child.”

“Pay me,” Sherlock pouts.

Sherlock pulls John in close, and the two kiss and kiss until they fall back asleep.


End file.
